


Prince of Weeds

by havisham



Category: Original Work
Genre: Brothers, Complicated Relationships, Historical Fantasy, Magic, Other, Sorcerers, Supernatural Elements, Vague Arthuriana, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:47:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24716284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: Stripped of the only life he’s ever known, Laelius is a young prince on the run. His only hope of survival depends on Fiacre -- a mysterious, mercurial boy who is kind and cruel to him in turns. Together, Laelius and Fiacre must work together to survive in a strange and magical landscape.As their journey changes from a struggle for survival to achieving their destiny, Laelius must ask himself what is he willing to sacrifice in order to become a king.
Relationships: Original Male Character & Original Male Character, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Warlord Prince & His Sorcerer Brother
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank to my beta, El! 
> 
> This is an ongoing WIP situation, subscribe for future installments. Tags and warnings subject to change.

This was the first memory Laelius had of his father -- he had remembered it so many times that all of it had taken on an uncertain quality, as if it were a dream. He remembered being lifted up, his legs kicking uselessly in the air. Then, just as abruptly, he was set on a bony, uncomfortable lap. He began to cry, for the smell of sweat and skin-warm wool was too much for him. 

His father sighed. “If I give you this, will you stop crying?” 

_This_ turned out to be a crown, heavy against his head. The entire weight of it wasn't even on him -- his head would be too small to support it, after all. But still, the court around him -- the brightly dressed nobles, the soldiers in their armor, and even his mother, whose worried mouth twisted into a small smile when she saw him looking at her -- they were all smiling, he saw, all approved of how the little prince had stopped crying the moment the golden crown touched his head. 

All except one skinny boy in the back. He was like a jet black feather in a peacock’s tail, striking in his plainness. He frowned at Laelius, his fierce gaze piercing through the fog of approval and flattery. It was something real in the midst of artifice. 

But his father caught that look and chuckled. “Ah,” he said softly, so only Laelius could hear him. “I see that you have spotted him, my son. That boy who looks at you so boldly is your cousin and your enemy, my sister’s son.” 

Though he nodded, Laelius didn’t know what his father meant. Enemies and cousins all meant the same to him. He didn’t mind the other boy’s frown -- it seemed to suit his face, as much as the crown, he guessed, suited his own. 

*

Laelius was as pampered and cared-for a prince as possible, and the heir apparent to the throne. When his father departed for war, his mother, the queen, was appointed regent. However, Laelius saw no difference in his life. All was as it should be -- except, of course, all talk would cease as soon as he entered a room. People would avoid his eye -- and not just out of an excess of respect for his station. 

He knew why, of course, and though his mother assured him that one day, all would see his worth, Laelius doubted. Why expect validation from strangers that even his father wouldn’t give him? 

*

Then came the catastrophe. There was a scream just outside the hall to the queen’s rooms. Then many screams throughout the castle, a cacophony that made Laelius want to stop his ears. 

Benedict, the captain of the queen’s guard, had wrapped Laelius tightly in his cloak and for the sake of it, Laelius was still, pretending to sleep. He was small for his age and used to being carried -- though he could walk, he was slow about it, and his right foot had been malformed at birth -- the result of witchcraft, they said. 

He wanted to see his mother most of all, but he knew that Benedict would not have taken him without her approval. They stole across the castle, taking secret ways and hidden passageways. There was a persistent smell of smoke all throughout, and Laelius wrapped the cloak tighter around his face. 

Finally, Benedict’s pace slowed. They were now in the catacombs deep underneath the castle, a place that Laelius had always been forbidden to go. It was mostly dark, though ahead he could make out the outline of a torch. 

“You have him, Benedict?” said a voice in the darkness. Benedict nodded and deposited Laelius on the ground in front of the stranger. The cloak would do him no more good, it seemed. Laelius threw it off and tried to stand. In front of him was the boy who had looked at him so boldly during the audience. 

“Are you going to kill me?” Laelius asked. “Give me a weapon, at least. It isn’t fair if I can’t defend myself.” 

The boy raised his brow. “You are bolder than I thought. But I am not here to kill you.” He reached out and touched Laelius’ forehead. His eyes, moss-green and somehow hypnotic, gleamed in the dark. “Your name is Lleu and you are my brother. Can you remember that?” 

“I’m not --” 

“ _You are_ ,” said the boy. “My name is Fiacre and I will care for you until you can return here.” 

“Benedict, you can’t leave me here with this mad boy --” Laelius looked to the guardsman appealingly, but he was already retreating. 

“I’m sorry, my prince! But he is the closest family you have now.” 

“Bring me back to my mother!” Laelius’ voice rose to a sob, but he was silenced by a sharp blow to his face. 

“Do you want to die?” Fiacre said sharply. “There’s soldiers crawling all over the place, looking for brats like you. And you want to scream and cry and be found?” 

“My father said you are my enemy,” Laelius said, still holding his cheek. It ached, shockingly so. No one had ever touched him in anger before. Fiacre looked pleased at that. 

“He would, the old devil. What did he say I was? No, don’t answer that. We must leave before we’re found.” 

“I won’t go anywhere with you.” 

“Fine,” Fiacre said carelessly. “Stay here with the bones of your ancestors. I’m sure they’ll protect you.” He blew out the torch and Laelius could hear his footsteps walking away. 

He endured the silence and dark for as long as he could. There was something crawling up his neck that he had to brush off, but after another minute of solitude, Laelius cried out. “Wait! Please -- ah, brother, wait for me!” 

Fiacre had not gone far. He laughed when Laelius stumbled upon him, and threw a heavy arm over the younger boy’s shoulder. “There,” he said, “was that so hard?” 

Laelius shivered. He did not know the answer to that -- he thought only time would tell. 

*

Fiacre forced him to throw away his fine clothes -- fit for a prince, of course -- and wear the rags he’d brought with him. They made their way out of the city and into the countryside, blending in with the throngs of other people who were fleeing the collapse of the kingdom. Fiacre spoke for them -- he warned Laelius that as soon as he opened his mouth, his accent would betray him as a noble, at least, but Fiacre seemed to blend in better with the common folk. 

He introduced himself as Fin when he was asked, and Laelius as his simple brother, Lleu. They were a tanner’s sons, who had fled the chaos of the city and thrown themselves on the mercy of the road. Laelius heard his talk and rolled his eyes. It seemed impossible that anyone would believe him, but to his surprise, most people nodded along and accepted whatever Fiacre said. 

When he spoke, his eyes would glow moss-green like they had in the catacombs, and even Laelius, knowing what he was doing, would find himself nudged to agree with him. That was not natural, he knew. Fiacre was a witch or something worse. 

He couldn’t be sure that Fiacre didn’t mean him harm, but as the days turned into weeks and months, it seemed he was in no danger from him, at least. Bit by bit, the story of what had happened that night began to emerge. Laelius knew that his father had been at war with the neighboring king for many years, with a stalemate on both sides.

But then the old king had died and had been replaced by a younger, more vicious successor -- Taranis. His name alone was enough to strike fear into everyone’s hearts. 

Suddenly, Laelius’ father was on the defensive. Suddenly, it seemed that they might lose this war. And then -- the catastrophe. 

Now Laelius’ father was dead, betrayed by his own nobles, who had treated with the neighboring king in secret. The queen too was missing, having jumped from her tower as the enemy army marched into the castle -- or so went the rumor. 

As for the vanquished king’s heir… Dead, definitely dead, was the foregone conclusion. To think otherwise was to believe in fairy-stories. 

*

Laelius found that the news of his own supposed demise didn’t upset him over-much. All of it seemed to have happened to someone else. Instead, he concentrated on becoming Lleu, who had never needed to worry about being more than this ordinary boy, who was only concerned about surviving. 

The rest of it -- reclaiming his father’s throne, avenging his parents, doing all of that -- Laelius knew that it was all a matter of time. He was too young -- too weak -- to do it now. He would have to grow and get stronger if he had any hope for success. 

“Stop dawdling,” Fiacre said sharply. “We need to be in the next town before dark. I’m not carrying you.” 

Laelius stopped the whine that had risen up in his throat just in time. He hated it, walking everywhere. His feet felt like slabs of raw meat, and it wasn’t as if Fiacre let him stop as often as he wanted. 

Laelius looked at Fiacre, trudging in front of him, back bent with the weight of his pack. When they’d left the city, he’d been carrying nothing at all, but now he’d managed to salvage -- and steal -- quite a lot in the chaos. 

“What do you call that thing that you do?”

Fiacre turned to him and frowned. “What do you mean?” 

“Your witchcraft -- the magic.” The words had barely left his mouth when Laelius was on the ground, looking up to the sky and Fiacre staring down at him coldly. 

“Why did you hit me?” Laelius said, beginning to sniff. 

“Don’t talk about things you don’t know, especially where anyone can hear,” Fiacre said, helping him up again. “Do you understand me?” 

“I don’t think it’s bad,” Laelius said. “I’m just curious about what you can do. Like now, you weren’t even near me when I fell -- did you…?”

“You don’t need magic to fall over,” Fiacre said and flashed him a quick smile. It was strange to see what a smile could do for the older boy’s face -- transformed it into something that Laelius wanted to see more often. 

They got to the next town by sunset and managed to beg some food from a baker’s wife. Laelius wondered if Fiacre actually had a plan as to what they were going to do and where they were headed. He thought that Fiacre couldn’t be so much older than himself -- despite being strong-looking and brawnier -- but he seemed used to looking out for himself. And despite his frequent threats to leave Laelius behind, he never did so. 

Their wandering came to an end one day, just after spring had finally blossomed into summer and the woods around them were buzzing with life. Laelius had wandered away from their campsite, looking for a place to piss, when he spied a thread of smoke rising up from the clearing in front of him. 

There was a small cottage, snugly situated among a garden that was already bursting with flowers. Perhaps whoever lived there had some food they’d give them, he thought, going up the path to the door. Or perhaps they could do some chores for an evening meal. The door was open and so he let himself in -- a ginger cat went out between his legs. 

“Hello? Anyone there?” 

Silence greeted him. It was clear that there was someone living there -- in the kitchen, there was bread and cheese laid out. He ate all of it without thinking, only his hunger on his mind. It was only after he was finished that he thought about Fiacre, who would be hungry too. 

Distracted by what he would tell him, Laelius almost missed the sight of the body of an old woman, lying a few feet outside the kitchen door. There was no mark of violence on her that he could see. She must have been the owner of the cottage. Laelius shouted for his brother.

“What should we do?” he demanded, once Fiacre had been fetched and apprised of the situation. He had seen corpses lining the roadways as they had made their way out of the city, but he had never seen a person so freshly dead.

The old woman’s face was lined with wrinkles and her hair was iron-white. She looked peaceful, except for the thread of blood that ran from her mouth. 

“We’ll bury the old woman,” Fiacre said. “It does look like she lives alone.” 

“How do you know?” Laelius said. 

“Look around,” Fiacre said, and Laelius did. The house was small and compact. There were only one set of dishes laid out on the table.

“She might have family about,” Laelius said. “If they haven’t fled.”

“The fighting’s coming closer. Those who could leave already have.”

“Still, it’s a comfortable place. Can we stay here, Fiacre?”

Fiacre seemed to consider this. “Would you be comfortable living in a witch’s house?” 

“Is it really?” Laelius said, surprised. He had noticed bunches of drying herbs hung in the kitchen, and rather more books than he’d expect in a little cottage in the woods, but he hadn’t wanted to assume. 

But Fiacre nodded. “There’s a grimoire next to the fireplace. I marked it when I came in.” 

A little nervously, Laelius asked, “Do you think she cursed the place, this witch?” 

“No,” Fiacre said. “She is just an old woman who died alone. Let’s do what we can for her, before we eat all her food.” Laelius sighed and put down the pot of honey he had been carrying around and went to look for a shovel. 

They buried the old woman under the apple tree in the garden. Fiacre had determined that her name was Ursula, from the name on the grimoire, and Laelius carved it onto the bark of the tree. 

That night, they stayed in the cottage, Laelius playing with the cat while Fiacre studied the grimoire.

The cat swiped at Laelius’ fingers with a hiss when he was too rough with her and Laelius pulled his hand back with a gasp. “Wicked thing!”

“You’re the one that’s teasing it,” Fiacre said, his eyes not leaving the pages of his book. “Why call it wicked when it’s just defending itself?”

“I didn’t mean to …” Laelius moved restlessly, pushing his feet closer to the fire. On the road, with so many distractions, he could almost forget the pain. But now that he was at rest, it came rushing back to him. 

The cat slunk off with one last glare at Laelius and he sighed, unhappy. As such, he decided to shift the focus of his attention. 

“Fiacre. Fiacre. Look at me.”

“Why are you calling my real name,” Fiacre said in a long-suffering voice.

“I only want to ask if there’s a spell in there for my foot. It’s getting worse and worse as we travel. I’ve never had to walk so far before.”

“A book by a hedgewitch won’t cure you,” Fiacre told him. “You’d need stronger magic than that.” He looked at Laelius critically. “And if you care to retrieve your crown, remember that everyone knows the crown prince has a clubfoot. Could you prove your identity without it?”

“Lord Aulus would recognize me. He’s my godfather. Lady Septima was my mother’s friend, she would know me anywhere.”

“You’re a fool,” was Fiacre’s reply. “Those nobles are either dead or would kill you to please their new master. They would do it without a moment of hesitation.” 

“Wouldn’t you?” Laelius watched Fiacre closely. His brother smiled horribly, showing his teeth. “You hate me, after all.”

“Yes, I do hate you,” Fiacre said, leaning forward, taking pleasure in his words.

“Why are you so cruel?” Laelius burst out. He sprang up from his seat and felt a jolt of pain possess him. He sat down again. “I’ve never been cruel to you or anything. If my father wronged you, that’s not my fault.” 

“You know what your beloved father did to me? To my mother? My family?” 

“I -- I’m only saying that you shouldn’t punish me now. We’re in this together,” Laelius said earnestly. “You want to see me crowned, don’t you? Otherwise you wouldn’t have saved me.” 

Fiacre looked at him seriously for a moment before he laughed in Laelius’ face. “You’re just a little brat. How can you even talk about being crowned? It’ll be twenty years before it happens — if it happens at all.”

Laelius felt dismayed. It wasn’t that he doubted Fiacre’s words — as naive as he knew himself to be, even he couldn’t believe that he would regain his father’s crown so easily. It would be the work of many years and hard labor. 

But he would do it. He had seen the chaos and terror of the countryside. All of this had happened because of the new king. Laelius would see to it that the proper order of things was restored. 

“I have to become strong in the meanwhile. Gather an army around me. Would you help me? If I succeed, I will reward you.”

Fiacre nodded. “Will you swear to it?”

“Yes,” Laelius replied, feeling uncertain. He could guess that this oath would be a binding one. Fiacre banished all suspicion by taking out a wickedly sharp knife and showing it to him. Laelius pulled back, nervous. 

“What a skittish kitten you are,” Fiacre said mockingly. “I’ll go first, shall I?”

The world seemed to quieten around them, with the crackling fire being the loudest thing. Laelius watched Fiacre’s eyes, but they remained dark. There was no magic at work.

“No,” Laelius said slowly. “It should start with me. You are swearing to me, aren’t you? Your loyalty will belong to me if you swear.” 

Something shifted in Fiacre’s expression. He smiled. “You’re too transparent, brother. But I don’t dislike it. It’s best if you learn fast.” He put away the knife. “We’ll swear when you have a better chance to fulfill your destiny.”

Laelius didn’t push it further. The fire was burning down and it was time to go to bed. Fiacre had stripped the bed and thrown a new blanket over it. Laelius was sleeping on a bed for the first time in a long time. And though Ursula’s straw mattress was a far cry from his fine featherbed at the palace, he was grateful for it. 

And it wasn’t such a terrible thing to have Fiacre with him. Fiacre was cruel and mercurial, but he was there. No one else was. No one else cared -- no one alive, anyway. 

Laelius shivered, though the blanket was over him. He missed his mother, his home. He had gone through the events of the last few weeks feeling deaf and dumb, unable to respond properly to all that had happened. How could he talk of taking back his father’s throne? He was just a boy, and moreover one that could barely walk. 

Fiacre was right. If he went back now, he would be laughed at and he would disappear, to be quietly killed elsewhere. That was the fate of inconvenient heirs.

He would have to stay away until he was strong enough to defeat those who had betrayed his father. He would need to find allies, those whom he could persuade over to his side. Fiacre’s magic, as wild and unknown as it was, could help him. 

But — something in Laelius warned that if he put himself completely under Fiacre’s power, he would regret it before the end. 

Fiacre snorted in his sleep and turned, pulling the blankets over to his side. Laelius grabbed the other end and pulled it to him. Fiacre held firm. The blanket was taut between the two of them, before Laelius lost his grip as sleep stole over him. The last thing he knew before it took him completely was a cool hand on his forehead. He smiled. His mother sometimes did that, when he was ill.

He missed her and knew in his heart that he would never see her again.

*

They stayed in Ursula’s house for two weeks before Fiacre said they ought to move on. He said something about how the weather suited traveling — the chill spring had warmed into summer. “The sooner we get north, the better. We wouldn’t want to stray during the autumn or worse, winter.”

Laelius looked at him in astonishment. This was the first time Fiacre had indicated that their flight was in fact a journey to somewhere. He had been eating the puffed-up wheat cakes that Fiacre had baked on the hearth with the last of the honey. Licking his thumb for the last of it, he said, “What’s in the north?”

Fiacre looked at him in exaggerated astonishment. “Why, Lleu, could it be that you don’t know the only place that you can seek refuge? Though your own mother was the princess of it.”

“Mother never spoke of where she came from,” Laelius said plaintively. “She said that when she first arrived at court, the other nobles snubbed her terribly. She had to scrub away everything that wasn’t refined or worthy of my father.”

“She washed away her heritage. What a reversal, then, that her only child would come back to the clan, begging for help.” 

“I don’t want to go north,” Laelius said, his heart beating wildly. “They don’t even speak properly there.”

“Did you miss where I said that they would be the only ones to receive you? Your uncle, Aengus, would accept you as his sister’s son. His fortress is secure enough to withstand any attack from without. The only trouble is to bring you to him.”

“But it’s the same as before,” Laelius protested. “How would he know me as such? If Lady Septima wouldn’t.”

“They have ways to tell blood from not,” Fiacre said. “Now get ready. We leave this place in the evening. Take what you need. We'll burn the rest.”

“Burn it?” Laelius said, outraged. “Why not leave it standing so someone else can have use of it?”

“Because we have no more use for it. Why should we save it for another?”

“Because it’s cruel and short-sighted to do otherwise,” Laelius said, frowning. “I will go with you to the north to seek my uncle. But you cannot do whatever you want in the meantime.”

Fiacre didn’t reply to that. It was obvious Laelius had upset him, but he refused to say anything further. 

When they left that evening — weighted down by as many things as they could carry — the witch’s cottage remained unburned. Laelius caught himself looking back at it from time to time, until the forest swallowed it up. As brief as his stay had been, he felt some claim to the place. It had provided comfort at a time he had sorely needed it. Witch or not, Ursula had been a hospitable host.

*

They walked through the forest until they came back to the great road. It was less crowded with refugees than before. The main source of traffic now was a caravan that was headed in the same direction as them. 

Laelius recognized the travellers as folk from the country east of the kingdom. Their skin was darker than Laelius’ countrymen and they had a reputation for being canny merchants. There were some places far east of here, his mother had told him, where there was nothing but heaps of sand and sky. Everything that could be wanted had to be brought in. Laelius questioned why anyone would want to live in such a harsh and unyielding place, to which his mother had simply said, “That is their home.”

One of the last of the caravan wagons belonged to a strapping young man by the name of Fihr. He had spotted the two of them watching the caravan from the green, and had hailed them. They had swapped names and introductions, and Fihr, eyeing Laelius’ ragged shoes and limp, had offered him a spot on his wagon.

“No, we cannot accept,” Fiacre said. “We are poor boys with no family. We cannot pay you for the ride.”

“I did not ask for payment,” Fihr said. “But surely you see your little brother is suffering.”

Laelius stole a glance at Fiacre, who stood stiff and proud. Fiacre caught his glance and lifted the corner of his mouth. “Do you want to do it, Lleu?”

“Yes, Fin,” Laelius said, looking down. “If you don’t mind it.”

“Then you can,” Fiacre said with an air of magnanimity that was quite funny to Laelius, though he knew better than to show it. He went off with Fihr, while Fiacre vanished to do his own business.

The wagon was a solid wooden construction that was pulled by horses and trundled along on wheels painted with pitch. What it was carrying was a mystery to Laelius, but there was enough room for him to sit at the edge of it and dangle his legs down.

Once he was safely perched on the seat, Fihr spoke. “You do not look much like your brother.”

“We have the same father,” Laelius said, passing a hand over his fair thatch of hair. Everyone said he took after his father, to the point that the nobles had called him Little Artos — not that it mattered now. 

“Brothers can be harder on you than everyone else.” Fihr nodded to himself. “Don’t take his words to heart.”

“Thank you, sir,” Laelius said, touched. He had not thought people could still be kind — at least to a beggar boy who had nothing to offer in return. 

*

When the caravan stopped for the night, Laelius went to look for Fiacre. He found him deep in conference with an old woman who read fortunes. When Laelius came up to them, the old woman introduced herself as Husna. When Laelius called himself Lleu, she smiled and did not seem to believe him.

“May I look at your hand, young Lleu?” she asked him, leading them both to the fire. The whole caravan had broken up and there were small cooking fires everywhere. On this one, a small pot of stew bubbled forth. Laelius’ mouth watered at the smell of it coming toward them in smoky gusts.

“Once I have done the reading, I would beg of you two to come share my meal.”

“We would be honored to do so, Lady Husna,” Fiacre said smoothly. He motioned to Laelius, who held out his palm reluctantly. Husna’s hands were brown and scarred with lighter welts; her fingers were flat but strong.

“I cannot tell the future,” she began. “So asking me questions would be useless. Instead, I can tell you the threads of possibilities that are already inside you.” 

She ran a finger down the line of Laelius’ palm. 

“You, my boy, are of a great and noble bloodline, corrupted by power and greed. You are afraid you will be the last of them. But you do not have to be.” 

She paused and looked at Laelius. Her green eyes stood stark against her tanned face. “You will be the king if you sacrifice what is needed. Your soft heart will be the first thing you will have to give up. But not the last.”

“Can I not be a king with a soft heart?” Laelius whispered. Husna smiled and shook her head. She let go of his hand. 

“The softest hearts are the ones that break the easiest. Just ask my son, Fihr.”

“Fihr is your son?” Laelius said, distracted. Fiacre nudged him aside. 

“Thank you for your insight, Lady Husna,” Fiacre said. “You understand, of course …”

“Of course,” she said. “You two are no one, indeed.”

They had supper together and Laelius wondered what he could do to harden his heart. Every possibility seemed cruel. Could he not be a king and a person who was worthy of being king? 

*

They traveled with the caravan for several days. Laelius discovered some of what they were transporting to the northwestern port of the kingdom — spices so fragrant that he could get a whiff of them through the strong boxes and the covers. It was just a faint suggestion of something other than the scent of the forest, a strange, resiny smell that was nonetheless not unpleasant. 

Fihr told him of spirits that his people believed inhabited a world that was but a half-step from their own. “While humans are made of earth, the spirits are made of fire,” he said, as the noise of the wagon going along the path gave a hypnotic lure to his words. “They can move into this world quite easily and they are very powerful. There is a palace in the city of my mother’s birth that was said to be built by the jinn. Such fine small bricks could not be done by human hands. Moreover, the palace sprang up overnight.”

“Is that all they do?” Laelius asked. “Build things? That seems useful.”

Fihr shook his head. “They are not meant to be of use. They are like us — they have free will. Clever magicians can make deals with them — for wealth, or power or knowledge. Whatever is of value to them. But there is always a price that must be paid.”

“Is that what magic is in your land?” 

“I suppose,” Fihr said thoughtfully. “Of course, there are people who sell charms and amulets in the marketplace, but my mother is a seer. I have never trusted in those.”

“We have magic too,” Laelius said. “But only the wicked use it. Witches, sorcerers and demons, you know. They interfere with the natural order of things.” He opened his mouth to say something further but closed it again when he saw Fiacre approaching them. He was holding something in his hands.

“Get down, Lleu. I’ve something to tell you.”

”I have something to tell you too! Fihr here was telling me about jinns. Have you heard of them? They grant wishes.”

“That’s not what I said,” Fihr said, shaking his head. Someone called for him and he took his leave from them. Fiacre grew impatient and grabbed Laelius’ chin. 

“Why are you talking about magic? Why are you connecting it to me? Are you such a fool as that?”

“Fihr isn’t even from this country. He would have no reason to hate you for it.”

Fiacre shook his head. “You still have much to learn about the real world. Anyway —” He thrust a sack into Laelius’ hands. Inside the sack was a shining new pair of boots.

Laelius’ shock and admiration couldn’t be more genuine. The boots were of good quality and had been made with consideration for his own needs. When he put them on, they felt as comfortable as if he had already broken them in.

“Fiacre, such a gift is …”

“It’s not a gift,” Fiacre informed him. “Think of it as an investment. I expect a return on it soon.”

“How did you pay for it?” Laelius asked curiously. He didn’t know how Fiacre expected him to repay him -- he had no money, as Fiacre knew well enough. 

“Never mind how,” Fiacre said curtly. When Laelius moved to embrace him, Fiacre cuffed him on the ear. 

Laelius walked around in his new boots, admiring them. Fiacre was a sullen presence next to him. Together they walked through the camp, listening to the gossip. Laelius could somewhat understand it, from his talks with Fihr. He tugged Fiacre’s hands and whispered to him. “The caravan is going to take the northwest road soon. Will we go with them?”

Fiacre shook his head. “We’re going north alone. Are you ready for it?” 

“We’ve been on the road for long enough. Is it going to be different?” 

“It’ll be lonelier and stranger,” Fiacre said. “There’s a reason it’s so cut off from everywhere else.” 

When they informed Husna and Fihr of their plans, both mother and son tried to dissuade them, saying that going to the port city and then taking a ship up the coast would be less dangerous. Fiacre acknowledged that this was probably correct, but they had no money for such an endeavor. With some visible sorrow, Fihr presented them with two parting gifts — a sword for Fiacre and a knife for Laelius. Both weapons were exceedingly sharp and well-made. 

“This is too generous,” Laelius said, testing the blade against his finger. He eyed Fiacre’s sword and wondered if Fiacre would be willing to give the sword over to him. He smiled at Fihr. “We have nothing to pay you with.”

“It is a gift,” Fihr said gently. “One does not repay a gift.”

Laelius did not understand why the knife was a gift but the boots were not, except for the insistence of the giver. Nonetheless, he accepted both things easily enough. He had little choice in the matter. 

Husna had no parting fortune for them. “Good luck,” she said simply. “And make your own, if you can hazard it.”

*

Laelius watched the caravan go with not a little longing. He would miss the sights and sounds of people. It reminded him of court, but it did not seem as dangerous. 

“Come on,” Fiacre said. “We have a long way to go.”

*

“All right. Imagine you have all the power in the world. What would you do?” Laelius asked, twirling the walking stick he had whittled the night before in his hands. His companion did not reply, only sighing when Laelius shot him a pleading look. 

“Fi--n,” Laelius said. “Come, play along. I know for a fact you have plenty of plans. Don’t you want to be the most powerful sorcerer in the world? I’m sure you do.”

“My goals are my own,” Fiacre said shortly. “I don’t need to share them with you.” He walked ahead of Laelius. His stride was longer than Laelius’, but now Laelius could follow him more easily.

“How does one become a sorcerer? Out of curiosity,” Laelius said, when he had come abreast of Fiacre.

Fiacre glared at him for pursuing the conversation. “You have to convince a master sorcerer to apprentice you. Not all sorcerers take apprentices, so you might have to go through many before you find a suitable one. They are obliged to teach you for ten years or until you have defeated them in a magical duel.”

“Do you have a master?”

“I do not.”

“Do you want one?”

Fiacre said, “I see a bridge up ahead. You go ahead and fill up our waterskins. You can relieve yourself or whatever. Take your time.”

“You want to get rid of me,” Laelius said, gathering up the waterskins. He was glad to be given a task anyway — an important one, as they drank more on their journey than they ate. 

“And yet you’re still here,” Fiacre muttered, looking away. 

“If you had a master sorcerer to teach you, who would it be?” 

“Only the best in the world would be good enough for me,” said Fiacre. “A Talisen.”

Laelius nodded, impressed. The reputation of the Talisen had even reached his father’s court, where magic was mostly condemned. But a Talisen was no peddler of charms or witch in the woods, binding themselves to dark forces for a bit of power -- they were a power unto themselves. 

It was a rare sorcerer who could reach the level of a Talisen — one who had power over nature and time, and being itself. It was said that to be a Talisen was to burn bright at both ends — it was a glorious calling, but a short one. Such power couldn’t last long in a human frame. The first Talisen, from whom all others got their name, was the best example of that, though why or how, Laelius didn’t know. Usually, at this point, the gossiper would have noticed that he was listening and fallen silent. 

Laelius frowned. There were countless times in his life where this had been true -- people would fall silent when he was near. He was only learning now all that he had missed.

Curiously, he asked Fiacre, “How do you find where a Talisen is? Do you think he would accept you as an apprentice?”

“Why are you asking so many questions today?” Fiacre demanded. “Go do what you’ve been told.”

Laelius pouted but Fiacre didn’t soften further and answer questions. So there was nothing to it -- he had to go fill the waterskins. 


	2. Chapter 2

The lake was a narrow streak of silver — if it had been any smaller, Laelius thought it would have counted as a pond. Rushes crowded most of the shore, except for a sandy landing close to the stone bridge. Laelius sat on a small boulder and took off his boots and stockings with a sigh of relief. The stockings, he decided, could do with a wash. The sun wasn’t very strong today, and seemed to lose more and more of its potency the further north they traveled, but he couldn’t waste the opportunity of having clean stockings. 

He took out a dried piece of soap from his pocket -- a souvenir from Ursula’s cottage -- and bent down to the water, his stockings in hand. His reflection on the mirror-like water surprised him. Almost without him noticing, he had begun to grow. 

“Why are you polluting my lake in this way?” asked a musical voice from the water. Laelius almost dropped his stockings, so startled was he. He looked around and it seemed as if he was still alone, until a sleek black head bobbed up, several feet away from him. 

Pushing aside the wet, tangled hair revealed a pretty, smiling face of a girl. She beckoned to him, but Laelius didn’t move. With a sigh of frustration, she came closer. “What do you have in your hand, boy?” 

Laelius put his stockings and soap behind his back and picked up one of the waterskins. “Nothing, miss. I’m just here to fill up some water.” 

“The water so close to the shore will taste muddy and unpleasant. If you swim out here, it’s a much better taste.” 

“I don’t think so,” Laelius said. He spared another glance at the girl, who had swum closer to him. As she did so, she stretched, revealing a long, fair neck and collarbones, along with two pert breasts. He felt his face grow hot. He was certain that he should not be seeing such things -- not from a strange girl in a lake anyway. 

The girl noticed him noticing, however, and laughed at him. “So you’re not such a child as not to notice these things, are you? If you come closer, I’ll show you more.” 

“Why don’t you come on shore instead?” Laelius had filled up the first waterskin and now took to the second. “It’s not a day for swimming.” 

“Every day’s a good day for swimming,” said the girl indifferently. Her eyes narrowed. “Are you frightened? Do you know how to swim?” 

Of course Laelius didn’t know how to swim. At the palace, his bath times had been strictly supervised so he wouldn’t drown in the bathtub. But he didn’t want to admit it to this rude, wet girl. 

But from her cat-like smile, it seemed as if she knew. “I’ll show you…” 

“My brother will be wondering where I am,” Laelius said, putting his stockings back on and reaching for his boots. Except -- one of them was missing. 

“Are you looking for this?” said the girl, holding one of Laelius’ boots aloft. As his shout of outrage, she laughed. “If you want it back, you’ll have to swim out and get it.” 

“How did you …” Laelius walked to the edge of the water. It splashed at his toes, enticing him to wade in. Could he get to where the girl was without swimming? The water was murky -- there was no clue there for how much the ground dropped off. 

“I’m waiting,” said the girl in a sing-song voice. For the first time, Laelius felt a shot of fear run through him. He felt ashamed that it had taken him so long to realize the danger he was in. This was quite clearly not an ordinary girl, but -- 

“What’s taking you so long?” said Fiacre, and Laelius could not have felt more thankful to hear his brash, irritated voice. Fiacre was holding a brace of rabbits in his hand -- he hadn’t been wasting his time waiting for Laelius to return, it seemed. 

He apprised himself of the situation quickly, drawing his dark eyebrows together and making a thunderous expression. “Nixie,” he said loudly, “give that back.” 

“Nixie?” Laelius asked tentatively. 

“She wants to drown you,” Fiacre said flatly. “Water demons have to find amusement when they can.” 

“I’m very amused,” the nixie assured them. “What will you give me in return?” 

Fiacre sighed loudly. “I don’t know… Compliments?”

The nixie splashed around, apparently in good humor. Chortling, she said, “Oh, you stupid boy! Hm. You know, I should have asked my brother to come. He’d have _you_ in the water right away.” 

“What does she mean?” Laelius asked Fiacre, touching his arm. Fiacre shoved him away. 

“I’ll give you this rabbit in exchange for that boot,” Fiacre said loudly. 

“Give me your brother and I’ll give you the boot,” the nixie countered. 

Laelius began to protest but Fiacre cut him off. “The boot’s useless to me without the brother. Don’t you want to tear apart something that isn’t fish for once?” 

“Mmm, I do,” the nixie said. “Perhaps you should sacrifice yourself on behalf of your brother?” 

“Again, it’s just a boot,” Fiacre said wearily. 

“A boot he needs,” the nixie said. She smiled. Her teeth were very sharp. Laelius couldn’t help but notice she looked much less human than before. He would’ve noticed the gills on the side of her neck, surely, and the scales… 

“You wouldn’t,” Fiacre said, grabbing his hand and pulling him back. To his horror, Laelius realized that he had waded into the water without noticing it. The nixie had grabbed his leg and she was pulling him into the water. Her grip was cold and strong, inhumanly strong. 

He was being pulled this way and that. His jacket was starting to tear and he felt Fiacre’s grip begin to slip. Laelius cried out in fear.

Fiacre hissed something foreign and his eyes went green. Laelius felt something hot and burning slither down his leg. The nixie screamed and let him go. She threw the now-waterlogged boot at Fiacre’s head.

It hit him right on the forehead.

*

As they trudged miserably away from the lake, Fiacre turned to Laelius and said, “Now do you realize what a fool you’ve been?”

“Yes,” Laelius said miserably. His boot squished every time he took a step.

“Always listen to me,” Fiacre said, lifting his arms to the heavens. “Always!”

“What was the spell you used on the nixie?” Laelius asked eagerly. He’d checked his leg and had found no burn from it, but it had surely been something.

“Water and fire,” Fiacre said after a long pause. “They never mix.”

Laelius sighed loudly. They walked on.

*

Despite Fiacre’s best efforts to hurry them along, the season grew late. Often they would wake up huddled together under a covering of frost. Summer was a fleeting thing in the north. Laelius gathered the last of the berries and worried about the time when there would be nothing to eat at all. Even as he walked, he felt a terrible emptiness inside his stomach and a corresponding one in his head.

He remembered the lavish and wonderful feasts that he had attended at the palace, the same feasts where he had eaten a bite or two of food before sending them away. How he wished he was back there now — he would shove his old self aside and stuff himself to the gills.

“Fiacre, what’s your favorite food?” he asked his brother. Such was the length of their journey and Fiacre’s exhaustion that he failed utterly to scold Laelius for using his real name.

“My mother would make me paddlefish soup some days when I was ill. Every time. It was the only thing she could make reliably.”

“Oh, that’s nice…”

“I hated it,” Fiacre said.

“What?” Laelius said, taken aback.

“It tasted terrible. But no one’ll make soup for me again — I suppose I should’ve appreciated it then.” 

“You don’t know that,” Laelius said. “Perhaps your wife will make soup for you one day.”

“I’m not going to have a wife, you fool,” Fiacre said, but without much of his usual venom.

“You don’t think you’ll be able to afford a bride price? There are some nobles who put the premium on bridegrooms too, you know. If they have only a daughter in their family line or if there’s some ill fame associated with them.”

“Yes, someone would absolutely pay to marry into the dead king’s bastard’s family. Well-spotted.”

“But you’re not the king’s bastard,” Laelius said with a laugh. Fiacre stopped in front of him and turned, his eyes cold.

“Yes, I am. There can be no doubt about my parentage.”

“But —” Laelius stared at him. Fiacre was tall and dark. His eyes were brown — most of the time. He looked nothing like Laelius’ father, even with Laelius’ admittedly hazy memory of the man. His father had been a fair-haired blur, broad-shouldered and with a booming voice. 

Carefully, calmly so he would not anger Fiacre unduly, Laelius said, “My father told me who you are. You are his half-sister’s son. My cousin. I don’t mind calling you brother, now, for this journey has brought us together enough for that. But my father is not yours.” 

“He raped her, his half-sister. He claimed he did not know, but what does that prove? Would it have been less of a crime if she wasn’t his blood?”

Blood indeed roared in Laelius’ ears. He stared at Fiacre in horror. And Fiacre, instead of laughing at his reaction, looked only — resigned. He had had all of these realizations before. 

Evenly, he said, “My mother could not love me because of what I am. No one can.”

“But — why did he do that? My — _our_ father?” Laelius closed his eyes. He saw his mother’s face in front of him. She had always looked so sad. Did she know what his father had done?

“He did it because he had the power to. That’s what being a king means. You force your will on everyone and everything.”

“No,” Laelius said. “I cannot accept this.” 

He took off running into the woods, heedless of where he was going. The northern forests were darker than their southern counterparts. The trees grew close here, and the sunlight was swallowed up as soon as it fell. Laelius went deeper and deeper, ignoring Fiacre’s shouts for him to stop. Eventually, the silence of the woods was complete.

A curving trunk of a tree loomed in front of him and Laelius grabbed it. With some difficulty, he climbed it and pressed his face against the rough lichen. His mind was racing.

Suddenly, so much of his childhood made sense. The sudden silences that would accompany his entrance into a room. His mother’s persistent sadness. His father’s distance and then absence. Laelius had always assumed all of it was explained by his own flaws, both physical and otherwise. 

And perhaps that was true. But he was not the only thing to be ashamed of, it seemed. 

A robin landed in front of Laelius, almost startling him out of the tree. As he swung around the tree trunk, holding on for dear life, he saw from the corner of his eye — a cabin. When he righted himself, he saw it more clearly. It was small and dark, fenced off by a wooden barrier, with a frail-looking gate in front. Smoke threaded out from the chimney. Someone was home. 

Laelius’ stomach growled. He was still appallingly hungry. He climbed down the tree and began to walk toward the cabin. The robin landed on his shoulder and pecked at it. Annoyed, Laelius tried to brush it off.

Somehow, even as he walked, the cabin didn’t seem any closer. The robin took off and then landed on Laelius’ other shoulder. It chirped determinedly.

_Don’t go to the cabin._

Laelius looked around but there was no one there. No one but the robin. He stared at it and it stared back at him, its small black eyes boring holes into him.

“But I’m not magic,” Laelius said aloud. “I can’t be talking to birds.” He turned back to the cabin, but it was no longer there.

“Lleu! Lleu!” Somewhere far off, he could hear Fiacre calling for him. Laelius retraced his steps carefully until, at last, he saw Fiacre. Before Fiacre could say anything at all, Laelius embraced him.

“I’m sorry,” Laelius said fiercely. “You are my brother. I’ve known that for longer than I acknowledged. You helped me when you didn’t have to -- as brothers do.” 

“Don’t be stupid, I’ve mistreated you often enough,” Fiacre said. “Don’t become confused because we share blood. It wasn’t a lesson.” 

“If you knew what you were doing, then why do it?” 

“Because you’re soft, little prince,” Fiacre said, his eyes hard. “You still think that throwing your arms around me and calling me your brother will change things.” 

He pushed Laelius away, but not as roughly as he would have before. 

Laelius pulled himself together and looked at Fiacre squarely. “Nonetheless, I don’t fear you anymore. And I’m sorry for you and your mother. It was wrong, what happened to her. Our father was wrong. And you will always be my brother.”

Fiacre sighed. And when Laelius tried to embrace him again, Fiacre hesitatingly hugged him back. There was nothing more to say about it. They headed back to the road and walked in silence for a long time. 

Finally, Laelius spoke up again. “How do you know if a place is real?” 

“What are you talking about?” Fiacre said wearily. 

“I saw a cabin in the woods when I ran away. But I couldn’t reach it, no matter how much I tried. Was it real?” 

Fiacre stopped short and looked at Laelius. “Don’t go there. If you see it again, ignore it.” 

“Do you know what’s there? Who owns it?” 

“It’s an enchanted cabin in a haunted wood. Do you think a good person owns it?” Fiacre said. Then he handed Laelius a bit of dried rabbit to chew on -- and be silent. 

*

Sometimes Laelius spotted the cabin from the corner of his eyes, but when he turned to look at it fully, it was never there. Fiacre said that he didn’t see it, but he also did not doubt that Laelius did. 

“It’s an ill-omened place,” he said solemnly. 

“A trap,” Laelius agreed, pulling his jacket closer to his chest. Sometimes, he could just make out the silhouette of a person looking out from the lit windows. 

Another time, Fiacre stiffened next to him. Laelius grasped his hand. “Do you see it?” 

“Yes, I see it,” Fiacre said, his voice steady. “We’re not stopping here.” 

“No,” Laelius agreed, feeling obscurely thankful. He didn’t know what he would do if Fiacre thought they should stop there. 

*

It was a moonlit night. Laelius remarked on the brightness of the moon and the stars -- they seemed far brighter, the further north they came. 

He didn’t know what caused him to glance backward, but he did. Once he did, he frowned. There was a black smear across the southern horizon. It looked like a distant mountain range, but he knew there was no such thing. After all, he and Fiacre had come from that direction. 

He tugged Fiacre’s hand. “Look over there. What is that?” 

Fiacre looked and frowned. “I don’t know. Keep your eyes forward.”

Laelius obeyed him, but he couldn’t help glancing back. The dark shadow seemed to be coming closer. Was it a storm, coming their way? But it blotted out the horizon -- not like a storm would. It seemed to grow more solid -- more recognizable, the closer it came. 

“Fiacre,” Laelius said at last. “It’s following us.” 

The bulk had resolved itself into a towering figure of smoke and darkness. It was a gigantic shape, vaguely in the form of a man, though it stalked forward on four legs. It was coming toward them, slow but inexorable. 

Sharply, Fiacre said, “Don’t stop to look at it. Keep walking.” 

“But it’ll be upon us soon,” Laelius said, terror rising in his throat. “What are we going to do when that happens?” 

Fiacre’s eyes met his. “If it comes for us, you will go ahead of me.” 

“Do your magic!” Laelius said frantically. “Stop it!”

Fiacre put a hand over Laelius’ mouth. “I don’t know how to stop a thing like that. We have to run.” 

And so they did. It was hard going for Laelius, for though he had gotten stronger on his journey, he was still exhausted and hungry. He didn’t think he could go faster than he already was. 

Then the cabin came back -- or perhaps it had always been there? It was the same as always, the windows glowing with light in the darkness. Behind the oilskin, shadows danced. From the chimney rose a slow corkscrew of smoke. 

Laelius looked backward and regretted it. The thing was so much closer now than it had been before. It was still taller than most of the trees. It was still blacker than the night sky, but he could now see its mouth was opening. It was ready to swallow them up. 

“We have to,” Laelius said. “That place -- the cabin --” 

“Yes,” Fiacre gasped. “I know.” 

A shudder passed between the two of them — they had no choice but to go. 

Even as they raced toward it, the cabin did not seem like it was getting closer. Meanwhile, the monster still pursued them. Laelius thought he could smell its rank odor, wafting from its body. He had smelled something like it before — on the seashore, among piles of rotting seaweed. 

There was a tremor in the ground. The shadows were leaking. 

Laelius heard Fiacre scream, and something finally broke. They were gaining on the cabin just as the shadows were gaining on them. Fiacre was the first one to burst through the gate with a shouted curse. Laelius saw a bright ribbon of blood across his forearm. He reached out to touch it but Fiacre shook his head. 

Outside the gates of the cabin, there was a solid wall of black. No moon. No stars. No shadow of the trees beyond. Laelius looked up and realized that the thing that was pursuing them had now wrapped itself around the cabin itself. The moment they stepped out, it would have them. 

It was then the door of the cabin opened with a long creak. A man was holding a lantern in his hand and lifted it to his face. It was a face that was neither young nor old, but both at once. His hair was dark and so were his eyes, though they seemed strange to Laelius. They burned from within. 

He was a Talisen. Laelius knew without knowing. 

The man smiled and shook his head. “Close. I am Talisen. Come inside, I’ve been expecting the two of you.”

“No,” Fiacre said strongly, though he was holding his arm as if it was hurt. “Banish this creature and send Lleu to King Aengus’ fortress without harm, and then I will step inside.” 

Talisen shook his head. “You are in no position to bargain, Fiacre. If you reject my hospitality, you may try to treat with this creature sent by your enemies. See how you fare.” 

“Sir,” Laelius said, hating how tremulous and weak his voice sounded. “My brother and I are grateful for your hospitality, but we can’t intrude on your solitude. Perhaps we can stay here until daybreak, if that suits you?” 

Talisen turned his burning eyes toward Laelius. He smiled. “Ah, Prince Laelius. I’ve often wondered when your noble background would show itself. I can promise neither of you will be harmed if you should step inside. And as you no doubt can guess, my home can go anywhere. I can bring you to your uncle’s fortress. Unharmed and well.” 

“Fiacre is my brother,” Laelius said. “I will not leave him behind.” 

Fiacre looped his uninjured arm around Laelius’. His voice was low— meant only for Laelius’ ears. “I promised her that I would see you safe. I said nothing of myself.” 

“Who did you promise this to?” Laelius demanded. “Not my mother?”

“Who else?” Talisen said with a sigh. He sniffed the air. “My soup is burning. Come inside if you will. Or not. But know that as soon as I close the door, my protection will end.”

Laelius looked at Fiacre, who gave him a tense nod. Arm in arm, they went inside together. 

*

It was larger inside. Stupidly, that was the only thing Laelius could think as he stepped intoTalisen’s cabin. It was a spacious cabin, well appointed and comfortable. It was also as brightly lit as if in daytime. The south wall was dominated by a hearth, where some contents of a cauldron weres fiercely bubbling.

“I’m sure you have questions,” Talisen said, leading them to the hearth. The chill of their pursuit refused to leave them -- Laelius shivered and tried to pull his ragged jacket closer to himself. Talisen clicked his tongue in pity. “To see Artos’ son in such a state. A pity indeed.”

“My brother is hurt,” Laelius said, pulling on Fiacre’s sleeve, but Fiacre winced away from him. Laelius strengthened his hold and tried to peel away the blood-soaked cloth, but Fiacre batted him away. His color was high and he looked feverish. 

“I’m all right,” he said weakly but Laelius could not believe him. Talisen guided them over to the fire, where two straw pallets waited for them. It seemed as if Fiacre would fight the two of them before he would rest, but after a moment, he slumped over into the bed and was still. But for his still-moving chest, Laelius would have been even more alarmed. 

“Ah, it’s for the best,” Talisen said, bringing over a bowl of water and clean cloths. “Clean his wound and bind it -- I’ve a salve you can use. The beast’s poison is a potent one.” 

“What is that thing?” Laelius asked as he cleaned Fiacre’s wound. His hand was unsteady and he wetted more of Fiacre’s shirt than he ought to have. “What has it done to him?” 

“Your father had many enemies, you know,” Talisen said. The salve was in a small pot covered with cloth. When Laelius opened it, he frowned at the smell -- it was strong and seemed determined to linger in his nose. “Now that he is dead, their hatred will move on to you. It’s a natural process. It isn’t as easy to inherit friends as it is enemies.” 

“Everyone assumes I’ve died,” Laelius said. Fiacre twitched when the salve touched his wounded arm, but did not wake up. 

“Not everyone is a fool,” Talisen murmured. “Well, here’s my task for you -- in my house, guests are required to pull their weight. Stir that cauldron every hour or so and look after your brother. By no means are you allowed to taste what’s in the cauldron. I will be back soon.” 

“Are you going to do battle with the shadow beast?” Laelius asked. “I want to see.” 

Talisen smiled. His teeth were long and somewhat pointed. “Your tasks are set. If you wish to diverge from them, it will be to your own detriment.” 

So it was a test for him. Laelius dropped his gaze and said, “I see. I will do as you say.”

Talisen nodded, satisfied. Before he turned to leave, he stopped for a moment and said, “And don’t wake your brother. He has his own task to complete.” 

*

The first several hours were easy enough. Talisen had left him with a fresh loaf of bread and some cheese for his dinner, and though Laelius had a moment of conflict as to whether he ought to eat something so clearly enchanted, his hunger decided for him. 

Whatever was boiling in the cauldron gave no smell or clue as to what it was. The color seemed to shift every time he stirred it, but otherwise it did not change — neither the level of the liquid nor any other part of it.

Fiacre seemed like he was having a bad dream. He would toss and turn in his pallet, muttering under his breath. At some points, Laelius was sure that he heard his own name being called. As the hours passed, the liquid grew darker and darker, and so did Fiacre’s dreams. 

He was screaming now, his voice hoarse and cracking. He was calling Laelius’ name, tearing at his blanket. Laelius leaned down and touched his face. His skin was burning. The conviction set in that Fiacre was dying. He would die and Laelius would be alone. Again. 

He grasped Fiacre by the shoulder and shook him. “Fiacre, wake up. Please wake up!” But Fiacre still slept. Meanwhile, the cauldron was bubbling over, the liquid hitting the fire with a furious hiss. 

Laelius sprang up and grabbed the ladle and tried to stir it. He was careless and panicked. Some of the liquid splashed on his fingertip, burning it. Without thinking, Laelius put his singed finger into his mouth to cool it. The moment he did so, the fire in the hearth extinguished itself and the liquid stopped bubbling. 

Laelius shuddered as he felt the potion spread through his body. It burned through him, clawing through him and bringing him to his knees. What had he done? Why had he done this?

He perceived his surroundings with new eyes. The cabin now seemed cavernous and dark. Dark shapes loomed around him. The hearth was gone. With a sickening lurch, Laelius realized that he recognized his surroundings.

This was the royal crypt of his ancestors. It smelled of death. 

Fiacre woke up with a shout and tried to stand. “Laelius, where are you?” he said, looking around as if he didn’t see him. Laelius rushed over to him and helped him rise. 

“I’m here,” he said, trying to hold on to the struggling Fiacre. “Please — _please —_ be here with me.” 

The fight seemed to go out of Fiacre then. He sagged for a moment in Laelius’ arms. “This isn’t a dream?” 

“It isn’t,” Laelius assured him. “We’re still— here.” He wondered if Fiacre could see the crypt, or if he still saw the cabin. He couldn’t begin to guess which place was real. 

“Cursed place that it is,” Fiacre said, pushing Laelius away. He did it more gently than his wont. He looked around with some interest and Laelius’ eyes followed his. “I dreamed… Bad things.”

“A test?” Laelius said quietly. Fiacre nodded. “Did you pass?”

“Yes. I think so,” Fiacre said reluctantly. “I killed them all.” He said this with no visible emotion. Laelius touched his brother’s face and Fiacre flinched away.

“Don’t. Get out,” Fiacre said shortly. He gestured toward the door — Laelius thought the door hadn’t been there before, but now it swung open gently. 

Laelius could see outside -- instead of the terrifying darkness, he saw a road, and in the distance, a fortified city with mountains behind it. 

For the first time in what seemed like ages, Laelius felt hope in his heart. Escape was within reach. He grabbed Fiacre’s hand and said, “Let’s go before he returns.” 

“No,” Fiacre told him and seemed to draw into himself. “I must stay here and learn from Talisen. I passed the test.” 

“Fuck the test. Fuck Talisen,” Laelius cried out. “How can you choose to stay in this horrible place? If we go to my uncle’s house, we can grow up together. Be brothers in truth and in blood.” 

Fiacre looked different from before. Were his eyes sadder? His mouth more drawn into a frown? He dropped his gaze, as if he could not stand looking at Laelius’ face. 

“What an ungrateful boy you are,” said Talisen, suddenly appearing between them and the door. Laelius saw clearly now that his form — of a man, slightly stooped and softly smiling — was a paper mask, barely hiding the darkness behind him. He wasn’t a human being — he hadn’t been for a long, long time.

Talisen watched Laelius’ face and smiled. “So you took some of the potion. A little drop. Well! I advised against it, but you disobeyed me. Your life will be an interesting one.”

“What do I see?” Laelius demanded. 

“True things,” Talisen said. His eyes were burning through the paper of his skin. His mouth curled upward. “ _Only_ true things.”

Fiacre had been quiet for too long. Laelius should have known to be wary of it, but he had assumed that the trauma of his test lingered. But Fiacre took hold of him and dragged him towards the door. Talisen stepped aside with an amused murmur. 

Laelius was desperate to hold on. He scratched at Fiacre’s arm, begging him. “Please, please come with me. You’re the only person in the world I know. Don’t leave me with strangers!” 

“I’m doing this for your own good. Remember your oath,” Fiacre said, his teeth bared. He pushed Laelius out of the door and slammed it closed. 

The cabin disappeared, leaving Laelius stunned and alone.

*

He could have sat in the dirt and cried, cursing his ill luck, his loneliness and poor condition, but Laelius had learned that mourning did nothing to help him. He knew that, but still the black feeling was slow to leave him. 

He heard a whistle in the air and looked up to see a robin flying overhead. It was not just a bird, but something like red smoke followed it. He waited for it to come back and advise him, but it did not. 

Instead, he turned his eyes toward the fortress. He would need to go there and seek news of his uncle. He had no other choice. 

The sun was high above his head when he started, but it was dusk when the riders came upon him. Their leader was a boy about his age or older, with a fox-like face and bright red hair. He stopped in front of Laelius and asked, in as rude a way as possible, what his business was. 

“My business is my own,” Laelius replied and tried to walk on. But the boy blocked him and his men surrounded him. Exasperated, Laelius said, “I seek Aengus. I am his kinsman.” 

“Not true,” said the boy instantly. “I would know any kinsman of Aengus King. You are a stranger.” 

“Why would you know that?” Laelius asked, because it was expected of him, though he could guess the answer. He wondered if he had ever been so puffed up and proud as this young prince. 

The boy’s next words confirmed his suspicions. “Aengus is my father. I am Connla and you are trespassing on _our_ land and lying about it too. What a bold and stupid boy you are!” 

“Well, take me to him and we’ll resolve this,” Laelius said grimly. “Unless you lie about who _you_ are.” 

Connla seemed to lose some of his confidence. Laelius could see doubt assail him and tried to hide his smile. Finally, Connla huffed in frustration and declared that he would take Laelius to his father. Then, with a long-suffering air, he asked if Laelius wished to ride with him. 

It had been a very long time since Laelius had ridden, and even then it had been on ponies especially trained to carry him. He had no such accommodations here. After a few false starts -- as Connla laughed at him scrambling to get up -- he did it. 

When Laelius was presented to his uncle, surrounded by a group of nobles and Connla, he did not expect to be recognized or honored. But Aengus -- a sharp-eyed man of about forty, who resembled his sister to a great degree -- cut him short. “You are Gwenhwyfar’s son, without a doubt.” 

“How do you know it, sir?” Laelius asked, curiously. A shadow detached itself from Aengus’ side and resolved itself into the shape of a man. He asked Aengus a question and Aengus nodded, letting him speak. Laelius tensed, ready to fight or escape if he had to. 

But the man smiled, though his eyes were sad. He introduced himself as Gwydion, the court physician. 

“Physician nothing,” Laelius spat out. “You’re a Talisen.” 

“There are other powers and ways of being than his,” Gwydion told him gravely. “But besides all that, listen to me, Lleu. You were expected here and you are welcome here. Can you accept that or will you fight against it?” 

“Fight against what I wish for more than anything?” Laelius asked. He heaved a great sigh. “No, I won’t.” 

“Doesn’t seem like you have a choice,” Connla said quietly, but his father silenced him. Laelius grinned despite himself. For a moment, he allowed himself to feel some kind of comfort and ease. He didn’t know if he was truly safe -- he didn’t think he could ever be truly safe -- but here, he felt secure. It might be a momentary feeling, but he savored it nonetheless. 

He wished with all his heart that Fiacre -- wherever he was -- could feel the same. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up next: time skip!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are valued and cherished!


End file.
